A Cappella
by began-to-climb
Summary: If they caught him? She'd lived three months without him and nearly broke. Did she really have the strength to live without him for the rest of her life? SEQUEL TO I'LL FIND YOU
1. Panama City

**Name: **A Cappella

**Rating: **PG-13

**Summary: **Weddings are meant to be joyous occasions, even when you've escaped from a high security prison and the world thinks you're dead. Well…almost. Someone knows the boys are alive and this someone isn't going to let them get away easily. Now this case must be kicked into high gear to clear their names and have Lincoln be exonerated. Upon the takedown, two men very close to home will hold the blame and responsibility for putting this group where they are.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own many of these characters, except the villain or the antagonist is mine.

**Authors Note: **This _is_, I repeat, this is a sequel to my other story _I'll Find You_. I wasn't going to write a sequel, but then I thought about it and I looked at the ending and…well, we're here. I really hope you guys like the direction I've gone in.

**Warnings:** Okay, the whole idea is still being molded so if period of time happens between updates, I haven't gone catatonic, I'm just creating.

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_A wisp of hair caught on the corner of her lips, fleeing from the rest of the herd corralled together by two silver butterfly clips. Her long mane fell across her exposed shoulders, the styled waves barely grazing her collarbone as the front few locks were held back to meet around the back of her head. Her hand smeared across the tissue of her gown, wringing the bundled stem in the other. The pad of her palm roved over the crystals and lace; she inhaled. _

_A man, his brawn muscles concealed under the dress robes, appeared beside her. He held out his arm in an acute angle, offering her a wide grin. She tilted her head and graciously accepted his arm, cradling the accessory close to her chest. She kept her eyes focused on the doors in front of her. The man nudged her; she glanced at him then turned away as a shallow blush sank into her cheeks. With her hair drew away from her face, her smile was most obviously visible. She beamed, a roll of excitement rocketing through her stomach up to her throat, causing an incorrigible reaction. _

_The heaven gates opened._

_White clouds were strewn out in front of her, petals of rose sprinkled over the velvet. She took a confident step forward. The music played. The faces of the historic sea, all figures of their conjoined past, all turned to her. They stood. While the man on her arm eyed every one of them, nodding slightly in acknowledgement, her eyes instantly found the man in the tux at the end of the path. The Angel, his hands folded in front of him, straightened when she came through the door. She watched his lips part, aiding in his breathing. _

_Her feet lifted, hovering over the road, and she flew forward. The Angel stretched out his hand, beckoning her to him. Her lead bowed out and disappeared to the side. Her hand slipped into the other. She looked away shyly, but she couldn't pull her eyes away from him. His eyes mesmerized her, just as they'd done from day one. _

_A phone rang. _

Brown orbs fluttered open, a tint of gold glistening from the sun slated in between shutters, widening even more every second that they were willed to part. She groaned, shifting her feet that were tangled in white sheets, and, upon feeling the slight bristles of hairs against her smooth skin, began to stroke her leg up and down the other, the owner being the man lying behind her. The action had become habit. The sheets, the contorted flurries casting small shadows over the corners, were rippled across conjoined bodies, their naked skin molded together. She smiled at the strength of protective arms coiled around her body.

She was abruptly aware of how loud the silence had been when the phone rang again, merciless in its quest to reach the residents. Sara Tancredi's lips descended into a frown before shrinking further in the comfort of the linens. Her partner barely stirred at the sudden interruption, merely loosening his grip on her. Her every intent was to desert the phone in its cradle, to just dose back to sleep for another few hours, but the agitation only elevated into an unbearable state of mind.

Her mind commanded her to snatch at the phone settled on the night stand by her head and, subconsciously listening even at the early hour, her limb reached out, jerking recklessly until it finally found the plastic. Her eyes trailed her hand while she turned over in her spot, facing the man still soundly asleep. She didn't want to wake him, but this machine was going to drive her insane otherwise. The shook his shoulder, murmuring his name again and again as the phone continued to vibrate in her palm, until he swiped his hand in the air, gesturing to be left be.

"Michael, get up. The phone won't shut up." she pleaded.

Michael Scofield glared at her and grudgingly took the phone. Sara was suddenly happy he had decided on a cordless. Her eyelids dropped several times, attempting to stay conscious for the conversation, then she sat up, giving up. Michael, now fully awake, read the number in orange print against the black background; he recognized the number and the coded name above it. His legs swung over the queen-sized bed and found the floor. Sitting on the edge of the mattress, her bid hello to his friend as he ventured for the jeans he had discarded the night before. Once they were relocated, he balanced the phone on his shoulder, yanking on the pants as he jumped up.

Sara didn't see him wince at the loud hysteria of the Puerto Rican man on the other line. She, instead, glanced over her shoulder at the clock, reading the fluorescent numbers in her head. A trio of duffel bags was piled on the armchair in the corner, beside it on the dresser two plane tickets for the 11:45 flight to Mexico City. Caribbean heat clung to her adhesive skin, a layer of heat creeping up her barren arm. She pulled out the tie in her hair, letting it fall across her sleek back where it glued. The blinds in the bedroom were still slapped shut, discouraging light, and as far as she could see, as was the rest of the house. The passageway out of the room was dark, only slithers of sunlight seeping through the cracks. Her tongue ran along her bottom lip.

She looked back to Michael, noting he was now pacing the width of the room, gesturing while he consoled his frantic friend. With one look at her love, one look at his increasingly strained expression, she knew it was Fernando Sucre. The grooms wedding was tomorrow, the final rehearsal scheduled for that very night and the couple was still in another country. She could hear minimal curses spat in Spanish as Sucre refuted a suggestion Michael made. She smiled.

With the wedding in less than forty-eight hours, the couple's plan was fusing closer as well. From day one, when Sara had found Michael at the restaurant by the sunset, exactly as planned, they'd mapped a plan. At the ceremony binding two souls together, they would enjoy themselves and not think of anything except that day. Then, they'd fly back to Chicago for a few days, under the radar they hoped. The four days they booked, they hoped, was a good estimated time span for Sara to hand in her resignation at Fox River State Penitentiary and sell her apartment, thus becoming Bonnie to Michael's Clyde. Sara would have packed several essential items, but nothing too large that it wouldn't fit in an SUV. With nothing but an infinite future, they'd migrate to anywhere they'd wish to start over, a clean slate in a new place. The destination was turning to be the only flaw. Where could they go?

Sara reversed from her trance when she realized Michael had stopped mid-sentence. He was quiet and there was no retort from the groom. His steel blue eyes were settled on her, watching her movements with undisturbed attention. One leg was folded underneath her, peaking out from her buttocks, and the other was bent in front of her, her slender fingers locked together around her knee, cheek rested on it. A slice of fabric was clutched between her thigh and breasts. Her red hair fell from its asylum, tumbling over to curtain her tilted face and leg. She smiled at him. He had to marvel.

He sighed, locking his eyes with hers. "Hey, Sucre, try to calm down. We'll be there, I promise. I'll see you tonight, bye."

His thumb pressed the _End_ button; the dial tone resounded. Michael stood in the patch of light, the sunlight reflecting on his body art. Michael climbed on the bed, crunching his fingers into the sheets once in front of Sara to hold his steady. His face hovered close to hers. Leaning in, she closed her eyes. Their lips met in a tantalizingly sweet kiss. A brush of velvet.

Sara drew back first, keeping her lips poised against his. "Good morning." she breathed.

He repeated the comment and kissed her again, placing his hand on her waist. She giggled, suppressing a beam. Then she unleashed a squeal when Michael's fingers roved over her belly button, coming to an abrupt mania. Her laughs meshed with her pleas to stop his play on her stomach, reducing her to a surrendered position, her back to the mattress. Michael kept his game, straddling her to venture further. Her legs thrashed. When her humorous begs to end were ignored, her hands moved to halt the actions.

He asked for surrender; she did. Her breasts heaved up and down, the sheet falling lower with every breath. Sara didn't inch to replace it. Michael ducked down and laid a kiss on her lips, landing a roll of the eyes.

He brushed a strand of hair away from her eyes. "Do you want to grab breakfast before we have to leave for the airport?"

Sara stilled a pregnant pause as if in deep thought. "All right."

Michael kissed her cheek and rolled off the bed, extending his hand to her. She secured the sheet around her body and accepted his hand, standing on unsteady legs a second longer than needed. With the small amount of room the tight bed sheet allowed her, she ambled across the room to the bathroom, plucking out something on her way. She could feel Michael's eyes on her. She reappeared from the bathroom twenty minutes later—make-up applied, hair fixed—in a flowing white sundress, flip-flops on her feet. Michael was already waiting at the door, fidgeting, apparently ready to go whenever possible. Sara hurried forward, complying with Michael's ushering. At twenty to nine, they didn't have a long time before they needed to leave for the airport.

Michael had rented a condo on the beach when he and the boys had hid out, but now it solely belonged to him until they'd leave. You could just step onto the small porch and see the wide infinity of the ocean, listen to the wave lap against the sand, or watch joggers and children building sandcastles. The best time was at sunset or right at sunrise when the temperature had dropped and the breeze was just right. The cardinal colors painted the sky, drowning the city in blood and fire and water.

Another benefit of the location was a small hut café not ten minutes down the road. Michael had a certain fondness to its bacon and fruit and, though spurned at first, Sara herself had grown an attachment to the fresh coffee and pancakes. Even the regulars were warming. What Sara liked the most about the place was that no one gave them a second look, no one knew who they were. She'd never caught anyone staring or whispering. In this city, they were just another normal couple, just two young people in love. No one questioned their past or where they were from. They were hospitable and looked upon each other lovingly; they were just like any tourist. She didn't have to worry about him getting caught…she didn't have to remind herself she was holding hands with a criminal on the hunt.

Their teasing was momentarily halted when two plates were set in front of them, but when the man left, Michael went on with his insistence. For the past five minutes he had begged Sara to tell him what she was wearing to the wedding, but since the question was first lifted, she had playfully resisted a reply.

She sipped her coffee. "I am not telling you. You will have to wait, Mr. Scofield."

Michael narrowed his eyes; Sara only smiled wider. Michael had an essential role in the wedding; therefore he would have to be a church hours before the ceremony initially began. This disabled him from seeing Sara and he really wanted to know what she was going to wear. For what reason, she didn't know. He did argue that he didn't feel comfortable with her being alone in Mexico City, but she assured him she would be all right. Besides, she said, it wasn't like she'd be alone the whole time.

"Right,"—Michael nodded—"what time are they meeting you?"

"Around five I think."

"Be sure to say hello to them for me."

"Michael, you'll see them afterward."

"You know what I mean." Sara shrugged, considering this true. Michael glanced at the clock over the counter. "We should head back. We need to be at the airport in thirty minutes."

Sara nodded and placed discarded items left on the tile tables on their plates. Michael grabbed the check as they stood and progressed to pay for it at the front register. With a final smile to the woman, the two strolled back into the morning sun. Michael laced his fingers in hers and tugged her towards the beach. She scampered down the dip after his jog, the sand licking at her feet, then collided into his shoulder. Michael's arm looped around her body, securing her as he swung her around. She landed on the opposite side of him, parallel to the water, muffling her laughs.

Her hand grazed his arm then squeezed his hand. They settled into a brisk, but relaxing stride, whispering to one another. Their shadows walked in front of them, running ahead like excited children. Halfway down the beach, their condo looming ahead, they fell silent. In unison they looked to the ocean. The realization that they'd be leaving this paradise came crashing down. The last two weeks had been spent making up for all their lost time, the days they wanted to touch but were forbidden from, the days where words exchanged were their only link, the days mistakes had clouded their hearts, the days they had to deny their feelings for the protection of the other. The wedding was supposed to be the week before, but after the bride had gone into false labor, her doctor set her on bed-rest, postponing the wedding for several extra days.

In Panama they were free. Free from judgement, free from retribution, free from law…free from the world's malicious eyes. They could be together without any of that and for that reason, this city was forever going to be special.

Sara sighed. "I can't believe that we have to leave. We have to return to all that…ugliness. The very place we're not allowed to be together."

Michael let go of her hand and wrapped her arm around her shoulder. "No one can keep us apart." he whispered in her ear.

Sara looked up at him. "But they'll try. This place is special, Michael. It's authentic, it doesn't judge, nor does it look on us with hateful eyes. What if they succeed? What if they take you away?"

"They won't."

Sara swallowed, a sudden ache of sadness and doubt swelling in her gut. Michael hugged her close to him, pulling her to his body, and kissed her head. She inhaled the gesture, looking straight into his eyes. This was the man she needed; so what was she supposed to do if they took him away? If they caught him? She'd lived three months without him and nearly broke. Did she really have the strength to live without him for the rest of her life?

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**Authors Note: **There was chapter one. What did you think?


	2. Sucre's Wedding

**A/N: **I'm so sorry about the long wait for an update. My computer died on me three weeks ago and I wasn't able to do anything (write, check e-mail, etc.). I almost went crazy. But now I have connection again and school's out, so I hope to update more regularly.

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"Michael, you're going to be late!"

Sara bellowed as she tramped through the many rooms of the hotel suite, passing the living room and main hall. Wringing her hands together in her lap, she leaned on the doorframe, posing one foot with the nails of her toes connected to the floor like a ballerina's stance as she watched Michael rummage greedily through his bag. Pushing aside all the clothes folded in the case, digging down to the very bottom, he groaned irritably and his shoulders fell limp.

He sensed her there. "I can't find the damn address of the church." he admitted, balancing his hands on his hip.

Sara followed his movements with her eyes, how his long strides carried from one bag on the chair in the corner to her carry-on duffel by the bathroom door. The shower was running, prepared with hot water producing steam to clinch to the mirror, inviting her solely in. With the door wide open, she felt she could feel the intensity of the heat, creeping up on her naked legs. The white bathrobe only encouraged that desire.

Michael growled in his throat, grabbing Sara's attention back to him. The serene redhead doctor took Michael's hand, laying her chin on his shoulder for a brief second. His muscles relaxed under her touch, the tension slowly dissipating. She offered him some help; he accepted. Tearing from him, she went to the nightstand, pulling open the top two drawers.

"When did you see it last?" she asked as she went about the hunt.

Finding nothing but a leather copy of the Bible, she flipped through the few magazines on the surface top, remembering that they had deposited a couple things over the span of the last few hours. Maybe it was there. No.

"I don't know, Sara. This morning, on the plane, I think. I'm not completely sure." Michael heaved a dreaded sigh. "Sucre is going to kill me."

He skittered into the bathroom. Sara straightened, turning around with an observant glaze, and saw Michael. His face was glistened from just standing in the room, the steam engulfing his skin into a coat of sweat. Sara stifled a giggle. Even for a pesky rehearsal, he was adorned in dress pants and a white shirt that easily hid all of his tattoos. He didn't have his shoes on yet, though, and the belt he wore around his waist was undone, the buckle clicking against unmentionable places, dinging as it collided with its equal. Sara smirked then joined him in the room.

"Let me see you wallet." she instructed gently, her palm out flat.

Michael stood and stared at her, wondering in his mind what she would need with his wallet. Tentatively, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and handed it to her then went back to frisk the tile counter. He didn't pay attention to Sara, though she was now flipping through his wallet, flying through the pictures he had in protective covers. She blushed at seeing a picture of herself, the next of them together on the beach.

Finally, tugging on all the cards in the slits in the front, she found a tattered slip of paper with his professional handwriting. An address and date was written on it. She held it up victoriously. "Found it."

Michael whirled around, a proud smile spreading across his features, his hands up by his shoulders. He snatched the sheet, read it, and mumbled a 'thank God.' His eyes flew up to her and, abruptly, she was in his arms, grasping for dear life with her legs wrapped around him, laughing as Michael spun them around. Michael held her close to him, hoisting her up and inch so she was directly aligned with him.

"Thank-you." he whispered. He captured her lips.

Sara shrugged, as if it was no huge deal. "No prob."

Michael wrapped his arms around her waist, feeling her loosed her grip on him, her unwinding. Yet she was still in the air. "So, what are you going to do while I'm gone?"

Again, she shrugged. "I was going to take a shower, then wait for you to get home."

"Well, then. You better get on that, huh?"

Furrowing her brow, Sara stared at him, confused. Without warning, Michael gripped her, grabbing her waist firmly with one hand while the other drew back the shower curtain, displaying the sweltering water creating a steam room in the small space. Sara screamed at him to put her down, knowing exactly what he was scheming to do, but it was too late. Dangling her over the porcelain edge, he placed her in the tube, still clothed and all. The water rained down on her, the scolding drops hitting her head. She gasped, water trickling down her face, driving between her lips as she breathed. She felt the fabric of the robe getting wet, constricting her.

She sputtered water at Michael. He cringed sarcastically, his hand holding the curtain, and then he smiled. "Have a nice shower."

Just as he was beginning to close the curtain, she grabbed his shirt forcefully. "Oh no, buddy. You're not getting away that easily."

With that, she yanked on his shirt. Her force caused him to stumble and fall in to the tube, thankfully landing on his bottom with his feet in the air. Sara patted his foot lovingly, one knuckle on her hip, staring down at him. His face portrayed shock. He glared up at her.

"I was going to wear this tonight." he informed from the tube floor, swallowing water as he said this. Slowly, using the side as support, he stood, getting his balance to ground in front of her.

Sara sighed, satisfied. "Oh well, it was too nice anyway."

"Yeah?"

Sara nodded, crossing her arms over her chest as if to declare the match won. Michael leaned back, taking in a mouth full of water, then spit it back out in Sara's face, like a child does to mimic a fountain. Sara squeaked, causing Michael to enjoy it more. He laughed, not attempting to muffle the eruptions, fueling the smile on Sara's face that she was begging not to spread further. Unfortunately, it did.

She hid her face, feeling heat rise to her cheeks. "It's not funny." she said through her own spout of laughter.

"Of course not." Michael refuted, also chuckling.

"I'm so getting you back."

"Oh yeah? How?"

Sara tilted her head to the side, a mischievous gleam tinting her eye. Her eyes roamed his body, noting how the shirt was practically see through now that it was drenched. It was basically useless. She stared at his tone body, his abs moving with each breath. She licked her lips and backed him into the wall, running her hands up his chest, her expert slender unbuttoning his shirt. Smirking, she kissed him forcefully, moaning to enhance whatever he thought would come out of this. She slowly peeled off his shirt, clipping it with one finger and tossing it to the side.

She ran her tongue along his lip, drawing back only a little. "I'm definitely going to be late now." he said, leaning in for another kiss.

Giggling, Sara merely gave him a peck on the lips and stepped out, leaving Michael to melt in the heat. He heard her humming in the distance. His chest rose and fell in wanton pants, feeling absolutely abandoned by the stunt that she'd just pulled. He drew himself off the wall, stripping off his pants as well once in the bathroom, then trooped back to the bedroom in nothing but boxers.

He watched her as he dressed, how she hummed a tune while she brushed out the tangles that she'd gotten from their little escapade in the shower. Her legs crossed, on the edge of the bed, a soft vibration coming from her throat, he watched. The last two weeks had been amazing. He'd learned so much about her, had learned how she loved to play, how she knew exactly how to drive him completely crazy, but not in a bad way. He'd learned her most embarrassing and genuine childhood experiences, the dirty family secrets that surrounded her, how she felt betrayed and abandoned her father after her mother had died, the gravity of the experience that had forced her to realize her addiction to drugs and all she could do to help others that were in the place she had once been…. He'd learned how she liked her coffee—how it had to be sweet but now too strong—and how much she loved fortune cookies just because they were fun and reminded her so much of the mother. Learning this, he only fell more in love.

In return to all this information he'd been overloaded with, he'd told her how his grandiose escape plan had come to reality, how he could identify with an absent father since he'd never had one and how he really missed his mother. He'd told her why he loved places such as Panama and all the places he wanted to go. He'd explained his geniuses, but she was more interested in what he planned to do with it. More than once their conversations had dwindled on the subject of a future together, having a house in the suburbs with kids running around. Both knew if that were to happen then it was a far off future. Except first he couldn't be on the run any longer. Sara didn't want a life like for any child of hers; Michael agreed completely.

"Michael? Michael, are you listening to me?"

Michael suddenly snapped back from his space travel and noticed Sara was standing in front of him, trying to get his attention. A sound rolled out of his throat, asking a silent 'what.'

Her eyes had concern in them. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, fine." He paused, remembering he'd changed. "Does this look better?"

Sara examined him, now dressed in dress pants and black sweater. She smiled. "Yes. Much better."

"Okay." Michael looked at the clock on the nightstand. He was going to be late, for sure. "Crap."

He brushed past Sara and darted down the hall to the door, Sara fast on his heels. Quickly, he grabbed his jacket from the dining room chair and shrugged it on. He had his hand on the doorknob when Sara called his name. He turned back to her. She had his wallet in her hand. "Don't forget this."

"Thanks." As he took the wallet, he laid a kiss on her cheek.

"Stay safe, okay. Return to me in one piece. And don't stay out too late." Sara advised, lacing her fingers around the strap of her robe.

"Yes, dear." Michael said. "God, I feel like an old married couple."

"That's nice, honey." Sara said, putting on an act. "Now kiss your wife and leave."

Rolling his eyes, Michael kissed Sara, whose hand was on his arm, good-bye. The kiss wasn't like many they'd experienced; while most were passionate and tender, this had an atmosphere of normalcy. It felt right; it was like they'd kiss every day the rest of their lives. Michael opened the door, smiling again at her.

"Take care of the kids." he cooed.

Sara followed him to the door, sticking her head out into the hall. "You're cute."

They smiled at each other then Michael descended at a jog down the hall to the elevator as Sara closed the door. Pausing for a second, she leaned against the door, looking around the quiet suite, smiling to herself. Tomorrow she was going to meet Lincoln, Veronica, and LJ at the church then they'd all be flying back to Chicago so the woman could handle business, but right now all she wanted was for Michael to come back.

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Sara meshed with the small crowd entering the neighborhood church, holding her hand clutch in one hand, being bumped into once as a pack of men squeezed past her. She rolled her eyes, but allowed them to pass, grumbling under her throat. She climbed the steps, ascending through the large oak doors behind an elderly woman with her daughter.

Once inside, she moved out of the way of a couple coming in and stood off to the side. Her eyes roved over the small audience filing in for any sign of Lincoln. Though the church was small she still had trouble. The group was only a selected few for this was an exclusively private wedding only for close friends and family. It was apparent that it was also only people who knew of the breakout and the real location of the prisoners. Both the bride and groom's families were there, as were friends on one side. Looking around some more, Sara's stomach sank. What if they didn't show up?

"Sara?"

Sara looked over and saw a young man in a tasteful suit standing in front of her, one arm extended towards her as if to guide her. She smiled, happy they hadn't forgotten. "LJ, hi."

LJ Burrows, Lincoln's son and Michael's nephew, returned the greeting. His eyes swept over the pews. "Come on, Dad and Veronica are near the front."

Sara nodded and followed along side LJ. The young man was handsome, Sara able to see some of his father's traits in him. She was thankful he'd recognized her, even though they'd only met once outside that one time at Fox River. A couple days before she and Michael had left for Mexico City, the small family had visited them to make final arrangements. LJ had been present and had left a strong impression with Sara, also taking a liking to the beautiful woman that had caught his uncle's heart. He'd joked it was a miracle, though his story was a miracle on its own. The teenager had been through a lot and to hear him that night so excited about being alive and with his father was a good sign. They seemed perfect.

But examining LJ Sara noticed a change. "Are you taller?"

LJ shrugged, placing his hand on the small of her back as he led her straight towards Lincoln and Veronica. They both looked over, then they stood. Veronica screeched. "Sara, hi!"

The two women embraced eagerly, exchanging quiet words with one another, complimenting each other's dresses among other things, while Lincoln waited patiently. The two had bonded instantly when they'd formally met, falling into serious discussion that left the guys completely bored. Except when Veronica began spilling horror stories from their childhood did both brothers bolt awake. Michael hadn't been quite as acceptant of his girlfriend hearing about how he'd broken his arm trying to impress a girl.

Sara slipped past Veronica to go sit beside LJ, hugging Lincoln hello as they kissed each other on the cheek, and collapsed in the pew. Sara had found she liked Lincoln even more after he'd gotten out of prison. At the dinner when she'd seen him last, he'd worked her through his case, explaining all their suspicions and such. By the end of the night she too was convinced he was innocent. He was just such a good-natured guy, a great father and supportive friend. Her eyes drifted towards him; he was holding Veronica's hand. Sara smiled. She was aware of their past, how they had dated for a long time, but had broken up. Now, free to be together, they were as much in love as she and Michael.

Everything was in place.

XXXX

Michael met his family outside ten minutes after the wedding, skidding to a halt in front of them. Sara swallowed a laugh; she knew he was excited about seeing his brother. And seeing Lincoln's expression, he was too. They clasped onto each other tightly, babbling over one another as they talked. Sara guessed that after having been through what they had that any time together was to be valued highly like anything could happen at any time. Michael ruffled LJ's hair, greeting his nephew with the broad question of how's life. Hugging Veronica, he asked about any new breaks in the case; there were none.

Michael shrugged his shoulders and wound his arm around Sara, gazing at her. She'd previously snatched him a glass of champagne and now handed it to him, taking a small sip of her own. "It was a beautiful wedding."

"Yes, it was." Michael agreed.

"Was Sucre nervous?" Lincoln asked.

"Freaked out. It took me ten minutes to calm him. But I'm sure he's doing great right now."

"How far along is she?" Veronica continued.

Michael had to think about that for a moment. "Um, closing in on nine months now, I think. You'd have to ask Sucre."

Veronica nodded. After being silent for a moment, LJ suggested they find a table to sit down, which they all chorused agreements. Because the reception was held behind the church and the sun was just then beginning to lose its intensity and fall into the horizon, the main area was held under a large canopy. They chose a table to the side and spent the given time catching up, telling what they'd been doing and what they were planning to do when the day grew tired.

After ten minutes, Maricruz's brother, who had given her away at the ceremony, stepped up to the microphone by the band. He tapped it once, ensuing that sound did indeed come out of it. They watched him.

"And now, friends and family, I'd like to introduce for the first time Mr. and Mrs. Fernando Sucre." he said with a smile as the newlyweds swept onto the dance floor, beaming at their guests, hand in hand. "And now they will share their first dance as husband and wife."

The heavily pregnant bride, with her brunette curls tumbling over her naked shoulders, hid a blush as Sucre kissed her hand then twirled her under his arm. He carefully caught her in his arms as the first strings of a their song rang through the air. They danced across the floor, laughing and ducking into each other's arms, nothing but smiles gracing their features. It was like everything that had happened in the last six months didn't matter and, more or less, hadn't happened.

Sara watched them, her fingers brushing her cheek as she cradled her chin in her palm. She liked seeing Sucre like this; it was as if this whole different man was shining now that he was with his bride. He was no longer the man that robbed stores or got into fights; today he was a newly married man and soon-to-be-father. She could easily recount a few times he'd visited the infirmary and had talked of nothing but Maricruz, and how they were going to get married when he got out. Granted, she hadn't thought it would have played out like it had, but…

Her train of thought was broken when she heard Veronica cough beside her. Ignoring the man announcing that other couples were now allowed on the dance floor, she turned to the other woman and put her hand on her back. She was rubbing her throat, a glass of champagne in the one hand.

"Are you okay?" Sara asked worriedly.

Veronica looked at her. "Yeah, I just…It went down the wrong pipe."

"Okay. You sure?" Veronica nodded. Sara turned back to watch the people dancing to find Michael standing in front of her. His hand was extended to her. "What?"

"Sara, would you like to dance?" Michael asked her.

Sara bit her lip and nodded, slipping her hand inside Michael's. The two lovers joined hands and he led her to the dance floor. She kept her eyes glued to the back of his head as he preceded her. Her heart was filled with love for this man. She was still having a hard time believing all this was really happening. Not even a year she wanted nothing but to get out of Fox River because there was nothing but a hope of saving someone to keep her there and then this man happened. And now she was at a wedding of an escaped inmate, happily in love with one that…God, did she want to spend the rest of her life with him? Had she found the One, as everyone called it? She told herself to relax and let the day go.

They came together on the dance floor. Eyes watched them embrace. He rested his hands lightly on her hips, but firm enough to let her know he won't leave her, that he'll never run. Her arms are wrapped around his neck, just enough to tell him the same thing. She wants this; this life, this love, and this man. He knows it.

A strand of red hair drifted over her eyes as they sway without words. Michael brought a gently hand up and brushed it out of her eyes with a charming smile. Sara tilted her head and pressed closer to him. She clasped the back of his neck and pressed her forehead to his, bringing them together as one. She inhales his sweet scent, her eyes closing. He closed his eyes also, feeling his heart tug.

"I love you." he whispered.

Sara smiled. No matter how much they say it to each other, it's like the first time every time. "I love you too." she breathed.

Michael drew back and kissed her head tenderly. His lips traveled down and kissed the tip of her nose, then cupped her face and kissed her lips. They laughed. It was the moments such as these where they can feel everything the other feels that they cherished the most. Nothing was more important than these moments. They _are_ one.

"I'm suddenly very out of breath." Michael confessed, hovering over Sara.

Sara nodded. "I'm thirsty."

"I'll get you something."

Neither move for a minute, reluctant to break this connection, but then Michael stepped back and led her back to the table. She squeezed his hand until the last possible second when he tore away. The man distributing the champagne handed him another glass and Michael thanked him, turning around with no prior thought.

His shoulder collided with someone else. His eyes found the violator. It was a man. His eyes were cold.

XXXX

**A/N: **It's nearly one in the morning. This was so long, sorry. But inspiration comes at the weirdest hours. **Yawn** Now I'm going to bed.


	3. Rogue Pack

**A/N: **Ha, no one knows who the mystery man is. Good. Forewarning, after this chapter, things get serious.

Previously on _A Cappella…_

_His shoulder collided with someone else. His eyes found the violator. It was a man. His eyes were cold_.

XXXX

The draconian force sent Michael whirling. The champagne in his hand sloshed at the abrupt disturbance, spilling over the edge and sinking into the grass. The man's eyes were coal black; the dark soul that radiated from the sphere's sending a shudder down Michael's spine. The man looked as if he were the walking dead, placing one foot in the other in a slurred waltz through morbidity. He wore a scowl on his lips, the thin pout in a frightening line.

"Michael?"

Sara's voice resounded in his ear, the serious tang floating through the air as an echo. He didn't acknowledge her as she fitted her slender form against his rougher one, but continued to evaluate at the man that he had bumped in to. Something about him just didn't feel right. His stomach churned at the possibility. Sara looked between the men, her eyes etching the stranger up and down, then proceeded to vie for Michael's attention.

She repeated his name. This time he looked at her, his eyes cornering to stare as the man blend with the crowd, disappearing behind a flying drapery. "Fernando's asking for you. I think he wants to go ahead and do toasts or something." She paused, glancing to where the mysterious man had been. "Who was that?"

"I don't know. Just some guy." Michael answered easily.

"Okay. Come on." Sara took the glass from him and smiled. "Gracias."

People had already flocked to their chosen places, only family of the bride and groom attacking the front tables, and were juicing their drinks as they whispered to each other, engaging everyone in amiable discussion. It seemed everyone was waiting; waiting for the first toast, waiting for the ceremony to end, or waiting for the beginning. It was different for everyone. Lincoln, Veronica, and LJ were already seated, Veronica's champagne glass untouched off to the side; LJ stared at it hungrily.

Michael pulled out the chair for Sara, then collapsed in the wicker beside her, slinging his arm across the back of the chair. Lincoln noticed. "Mike, do you gotta make us all look bad? Being all gentleman-like?"

Michael shrugged. Veronica nudged Lincoln. "You could try doing that more often."

Lincoln's shoulders fell to emphasize an involuntary subject. He knew Veronica, being a lawyer, was prone to arguing to flex to her advantage. "Baby…"

Veronica smiled, victorious at one more bent matter, and kissed him softly. Her elbows struck on the table, hands locked together, she rested her cheek on her knuckles and gazed at him adoringly. Sara watched them and sighed. It was something to watch them act as a normal couple. In their situation, normalcy was the most precious commodity. There were no guarantees that they'd get to see each other the next day or the next minute. Their life had become a gamble, one where if the dice were rolled correctly, they would be safe for only a little while longer. The gamble was a disease, contagious to anyone they came into contact with. If they got too close or too attached to someone, they hunters would capture and question. No one was protected. For these reasons they were selective of who they trusted and they let in.

In truth, a life on the run was like a life this disease. It was nothing, nothing but the loneliness of fighting another day just so maybe you could see the sun rise and set. Only the ones close were worth continuing the fight.

Metal tapping glass caught everyone's attention. Sara looked over her shoulder and saw a man standing in front of the towering wedding cake. It was Maricruz's brother, the man that had given her away, offering the first toast. She angled her body parallel to Michael's, granting her spacious access to the scene. He raised his glass and started, his eyes constantly flicking to the happy couple, rousing snickers and applause through the whole thing. Even once, Maricruz buried her head in her hands, hiding a blush, as her brother retold a story from their childhood, the classic tale of the four-year-old girl coming home one day and declaring to all the family that they were going to marry so and so. Sucre chuckled at it, muffled under the rest of the guests, and kissed his bride's cheek.

With congratulations, the toast finished. Mellow clapping ensued, the clinking of glasses trailing. Sara poked Michael's side, finding his secret ticklish spot that she'd acquired the location early on, making him instantly stand. Narrowed eyes trained on her, he took his glass and strolled through the mobs, finally coming to rest where the previous presenter had stood. A hush fell over the canopy.

He shifted onto the ball of his heel, trying not to notice how the Sucre's hand remained on his bride's swelled stomach. "Well, uh, I haven't known Fernando that long which was why I was surprised that he asked me to his Best Man, but, then again, I'm probably the only man he trusted with the job. Though we've just begun becoming friends, I know what's good for him, and the best thing for him is his beautiful bride. I mean, the way he talks about Maricruz,"—Michael sighed, chuckling under his breath—"is exactly the way a man in love should talk. My greatest wish for the both of you is that your love grows and you look upon this day in the future, knowing this is the day you loved each other the least. So, here's to the bride and the groom. May you always love and never lose, unless it's your heart, and may this family only grow with the years. Felicitaciones!"

A wave of shattered glasses rose in the air, the darkening light catching in the contours. In unison, the chorus drank their drink. Sucre helped Maricruz to her feet and hugged Michael, thanking him generously, oblivious to Maricruz wobbling to the cake, an apparent food craving testing her limits of resistance.

"So, you and Doc sticking around for a bit longer?" Sucre intervened.

Michael stuck his hands in his pockets. "Yeah. In the morning we're flying back home, but we'll come tell you when we're heading out for the night."

Sucre nodded. He studied Michael with a mischievous glint. "You gotta let her stay for the bouquet tossing thing, Papi. Maybe she'll catch it."

"Ha, you're funny."

Sucre opened his mouth to say something else, but then his attention was veered. "Baby, what are you doing? Maricruz!"

Sucre hastily brushed past Michael and went to aid Maricruz, who was stealing fingertips of vanilla icing off the sides. Michael sidestepped so he was out of the way of the marital chaos. His hands dug around his pocket, trying to locate the gift he was going to give to Sucre in private, but that was forgotten the minute he saw Sara. Legs crossed so a slender slit was exposed to anyone's view, she had her hand imprisoning her lips as he eyes bugged. She made a sharp refusal, but Lincoln insisted whatever they were talking about was true. She laughed, tilting her head back, then launched into a story of her own. Something about being afraid of Chucky Cheese when she was child.

Michael had been blessed in finding her and he knew it. Not only was this a beautiful and intelligent woman that had gone against all her private policies and those enforced by her job, she was a woman that loved him and willingly ran away with him so they could have a shot of something spectacular. A surprise had come when she easily fitted into his family, becoming so part of the family so quickly that it was as if she'd been there all along. LJ had become a very judgmental person since the fall-out with his father and then the reappearance that it took a lot for him to fully like a person. But somehow, he formed an attachment to Sara, becoming fond of her.

Everything was finally going the right way and nothing was going to deter them from that track.

Or so, Michael believed. He gingerly retracted his hand from his pocket, hissing from the sudden cut on his thumb. Sucking on the blood to make it stop bleeding for the moment, he ventured back into his jacket pocket to intrude on what had caused the cut. As far as he remembered, he hadn't put anything in there remotely sharp, much less anything besides his wallet. Fingering something in the depth of the pocket, he traced the periphery of the paper, finding it to be small and in a rectangular shape. Carefully, he tucked it between two fingers and pulled it out. It was a simple card, like those that businesses place themselves on.

On the front it blared one name in bold monotone lettering. **Uno. **Michael furrowed his brow quizzically, confused at the context of the name, and then flipped it over. There, in neat handwriting, was a nine-sentence note. He read it.

_The rogue group escapes from the pack_

_Scurry, scurry, behind the others backs_

_The leader has is all, protects it all_

_But even the leader can fall_

_They think they've fooled all those around_

_Yet this slip makes it easy for the hunter to track them down_

_Dearest Michael, watch who you see_

_For the closest are prone to deceive_

Michael read it again, unsure of the meaning of the context. Rogue group, leader, hunter, deceive…what was this? He did know it was a threat, but who was it from? Uno, maybe. The name on the back? He squinted at the note, seeing that he missed something on the bottom.

_I'll be watching, _it said. Thoughts ran through his mind, trying to depict the threat, how the metaphors could possibly connect to them. Then it dawned on him. He whirled around, the paper crumbled in his hand, and scanned the canopy. Who'd sent this? It was a threat, one that was warning him of whoever. This person, this Uno possibly, knew they were alive and was watching them. In that second everyone seemed to be staring at them.

Someone tapped his shoulder. He jumped at the touch, spinning around so fast that the person flinched. Sara placed her hand over her heart, leaning back to distance herself from him, his spooked flinch rubbing off on her.

"Whoa, Michael, what's wrong?" she asked hurriedly, stepping into doctor mode.

Michael shook his head and stuck the note in the back of his mind. "Nothing. Hey, I'm tired, we should go."

"Okay." Sara drew out. "Let me just grab my purse."

Michael escorted her back to the table, hurrying her forward, all the while looking over his shoulder at every step. Michael's sudden on-edge attitude was catching onto Sara, making her jumpy herself. Whatever had just happened in the five minutes he'd been left alone between his toast and now had changed him completely.

As she grabbed her purse, he leaned toward Lincoln. "We're heading out. I'll call you later. We need to talk."

Lincoln stared up at his brother. He knew that tone. "Bro, is something up?"

"Nah, it's fine."

Lincoln didn't believe him. "Whatever. We'll talk later."

Michael instructed Sara to go get them a cab then darted off towards Sucre. The groom with white cake smeared on his face from being splattered by it, anxiously wiping remnants that Maricruz left off with a napkin, noticed Michael approach immediately. Michael grabbed his arm and pulled him to the side. His grip was rough, firmer than he was accustomed to with this man. Sucre's smile fell; he knew, like Lincoln, that something was up. But he shook it off, knowing that if something were wrong then Michael would tell them.

"We're about to leave, Sara and I, so…" Michael pulled a roll of cash from his pocket, grabbing Sucre's wrist, and depleting it in his palm. Sucre looked up at him incredulously. Michael shrugged. "It isn't much, just five hundred. But it's just something we saved up."

Sucre offered his hand back. "I can't take this, Fish."

"Yes, you can. It's our gift to you. You go on your honeymoon, enjoy it, have fun, and don't worry about a thing."

"Thanks, bro."

They hugged again shortly, then Michael patted Sucre on the shoulder. "I'll talk to you when you get back."

XXXX

_A week later…_

Michael sat in the living room of the hotel suite, his head ducked between his knees, his hands cradling his head. How did he start? Where did he start? There were six people who were eager to know what he knew. They'd put up with his behavior for the past week; it was only fair that they learn the truth. The card was lying on the coffee table, the side saying Uno turned towards the air. Sucre cleared his throat. Michael looked up at the expectant faces waiting for him to begin.

He and his family hadn't gone to Chicago the day after the wedding, but remained in Mexico City. Michael had convinced Lincoln to move his family to the hotel he and Sara were staying in, giving him no concrete reason as why he needed to move. The master planner had called John Abruzzi the day after on a special number and told him something had come up and his presence was needed in Mexico City. He'd flown in just yesterday, leaving his family in Paris. After Sucre had returned from his honeymoon, he'd been told to meet them at the hotel at a scheduled time.

That time had passed thirty minutes ago. They'd been sitting in silence for half an hour.

Sara was curled up beside him, her hand soothingly rubbing circles on his back. He had to be most gracious to her. For a full week she'd put up with this huge secret, unable to get anything out of him about that night and why he had a sudden change. He wouldn't ever answer her when she inquired, causing her eyes to fall downcast like she was back in the prison, asking him things that he would find a way to not answer her. Unlike last time when he fed her lies, he just wouldn't acknowledge the subject. He merely told her to wait and find out with everyone else. After learning that the whole bunch was being watched he'd cut off all communications with the outside word—which included people like Nick and Nika—except for the elite members of the escape group. He wouldn't let Sara go anywhere without him, which she sometimes tolerated but most of the times completely hated.

But he still loved her for being patient and sticking by his word.

All those minutes of annoying overprotectiveness and secrecy had led up to this hour. Michael was supposed to be telling the people that mattered to him the most what this card meant and what their next move was. So far, all they knew was that he had been unknowingly been slipped a card and that it would mean a shift in where they were now.

Sucre was growing impatient, as was Abruzzi, who was seated on the brick dais of the fireplace, readjusting himself every second. LJ was trying not to fall asleep in the large chair.

"Mike, you have to talk sometime." Lincoln encouraged. Veronica nodded from on his lap.

Michael blew out a breath, pressing his palms together on his lips, and studied each man. These were the men that had survived the breakout and the ones that had been given back their lives. How could he just snatch that back after only a few weeks of freedom? Truth was, he didn't get to make that choice. That choice had been made for them.

_Here it goes_, he thought. "We're going back to Chicago. We're fighting for our freedom."

Abruzzi looked up, his head tilting upward from in his hand, and Sucre stood. _That_ hadn't taken long to translate. Everyone else was speechless. "Michael…" Sara started.

"Are you serious?" Lincoln added. "That's a big risk."

"Everyone thinks we're dead. Why the hell should we screw that up by going back?" Sucre spat. He wasn't happy, Michael noted.

"Because someone knows we're alive."

XXXX

**A/N: **This feels like crap. Is it? It sort of died after the toast, so…bad?


	4. A Need To Go, A Story to Stay

**Authors Note: **Thanks for sticking with the story, guys. Hey, did everyone turn in nominations for the fanfiction awards? Here's chapter four.

XXXX

_I'm not afraid of dying,  
but I am afraid of losing you._

Maybe I'm addicted,  
I'm out of control,  
but you're the drug  
that keeps me from dying.  
Maybe I'm a liar,   
but all I really know is  
you're the only reason I'm trying. 

-Enrique Iglesias, _Addicted_

From thousands of feet in the air, the earth seems at peace. The clouds split into separate particles, breaking in shards of amiable light that reflect the descending sun, tumbling lower and lower under the crescent. Tints of dark blue highlighted the top curves of the clouds, indicating that with the disappearing sun comes the promise of night.

The lights of Chicago were visible on the horizon.

Michael crushed his lips harder on his knuckle, the bone unconsciously blocking his nostrils from passing needed air. He shifted; he could breathe. His opposite hand flexed on his knee before falling limply between his legs, adjusting uncomfortably. He'd been finding it hard to sit still for the past several hours, the jolts of turbulence as the plane throttled in mid-air rupturing deep breaths from his chest. He didn't know why he was suddenly so unsettled. He'd convinced himself it was all the prospects of the events to come. He'd always wondered what would happen when he returned to Chicago. Now he could see death's eyes and he was even uneasier. He couldn't help it. What was to come?

His eyes had observed the changes of the light, the painting darkening as they flew on. Outside was darkness and man's critical word; how was he supposed to protect those in the plane from that? He glanced around, noting the positions of the passengers scattered about the jet. Sucre was using the plane phone in the corner, Abruzzi was attempting at sleep, Lincoln and LJ were playing cards, Veronica was flipping through a magazine and Sara was reading a book beside him. He sighed; what was he going to do?

He didn't have this planned out. It'd never crossed his mind that he'd need a third plan stowed up his sleeve, but apparently, he'd misjudged. Not once had the possibility of someone discovering their cover come to mind and for that he blamed himself for all this. If he'd kept a closer eye on his surroundings, if he'd set up a more bulletproof identity, a tighter security...maybe they wouldn't be risking their lives and their freedom to do this.

_"I know a place." _

_"Where?"_

_"An old safe house for my mob. It's outside Chicago, a good twenty minute drive, but it's quiet. Normal, but people keep to themselves. Interested?"_

_"We'll need a plane."_

_"Done."_

He rubbed his face with his hands, wiping away the weariness circling his eyes. He was so tired. He hadn't slept in two days, not since he'd told the group about their new plans. Sara had encouraged him to sleep, but every time he lay beside her, he drifted off to other things. Nightmares shook him, alerting him at every squeak of the floorboard, ever whisper in the wind, every set of eyes that watched him. He couldn't let go of the premonitions of the outcomes of this decision. In the pit of his stomach, he felt death and sorrow. Some part of this conspiracy wasn't going to have a happy ending.

Someone wasn't going to survive. He was scared.

Why were they doing this? Why were they gambling with the plausibility of death, or imprisonment? Michael had almost forgot. He remembered someone knew they were alive, but where had the idea of going back to Chicago been born? He grumbled, unable to find the answer. He'd said he'd have them, but now...absent. Where were his answers that he'd promised everyone else? That he'd promised to her? Fingers slipped into his palm. He glanced over; Sara was smiling sadly at him. Her hand was gripped in his, giving him a squeeze that silently bid she was there. Michael nodded; he needed this comfort. He needed her. If something happened to her on this trip, he didn't...he couldn't let himself think of what he'd do. His eyes fell.

_"Unfortunately, we won't only be fighting for our freedom, but we're protecting the ones we love. This man was at the wedding; he's seen those we love up close and personal. He'll likely use that against us."_

Michael turned away from Sara, ignoring her as she spoke his name. Her voice was a plea, underlining the anguish of still being pushed away. He hated doing this to her, hated when he had been forced to before, but for her own safety precautions had been taken. He didn't look at her. He hoped she'd let it rest and leave him alone. He had anticipated what a fighter she'd be; she continued to prob.

"Michael..." she tried again, firmer this time. Demanding, soliciting his attention. She scooted over in her seat, cupping both her hands over Michael's offered one. She knew he wouldn't be able to ignore her for long. Her lids drew closer together, meshing in a dance for a slow second before parting again. She laid her hand on his shoulder, tenderly stroking the ripples of his shirt. "Please, don't shut me out again."

Michael tipped his head back, the center of his head touching the headrest, and took a breath. He fell on her. "Come with me."

He grabbed her hand and stood, ducking to untangle himself from the low panels. He'd found private jets were small, yet spacious in some areas, except they had the usual storage of public planes. Sara followed him to the back of the jet. It was abandoned, thus out of earshot. He motioned for her to move beside him; she did. He drew a blue curtain forward, trapping them in an enclosed space that was only big enough for them to barely move. They had their privacy now. She stared up at him, confused.

Cupping her cheek, he kissed her softly. He hovered over her lips, eyes intently watching her reaction. She smiled. "What was that for?"

"Sara...why are you here with me?" he asked.

The question caught her off-guard. She blinked at him. Why? He wanted to know why? Did he not understand why she was with him? She thought it was very obvious. "I love you, that's why. Michael, where is this coming from?"

Michael didn't answer her immediately; he paused long enough for Sara to grow uneasy. "I have to ask something of you, Sara."

Sara thrust her face forward half an inch, a gesture that meant she was listening and was interested. "What?"

"When we land, Nick is going to be there. I've asked him to take you, Veronica, and LJ somewhere safe. Will you tell me you'll go?"

The doctor hesitated. He was asking her to willingly part from him. For how long? No, she couldn't wonder that because she wasn't going to leave him. She wasn't going to leave him to do all of this alone. Not a chance in the world. She shook her head. "No. I won't."

"Sara, this isn't the time to be brave. I need you to assure me that you will go with Nick and be safe. Please, can't you do that?"

Sara felt the plaster wall press against her back as she took a step back, Michael moving forward. He pinned her there. She glanced to the side, looking for any way out of this, but there wasn't one. She was taking her mind off of Michael's proposition, of the decision Michael had made without her opinion. What if she didn't want to go with Nick? What if she wanted to stay and fight with him? Wasn't that the reason she had let him and three other convicts stay in her apartment? Wasn't that why she'd slipped away to Panama to be with him for weeks? Why didn't he know that was why she was on this plane? She'd dropped everything because she knew in her heart that this was it; this was the thrill of a lifetime. Every molecule in her body told her to run, not walk, run to him. Run to this spectacular, unexpected, terrifying love she had for him.

She was with him, wasn't she? She loved him, didn't she? He knew it, didn't he? So why was he asking her to leave him? To abandon him when he was just about to plunge into hell? So many why's and only one man with the answers.

Sara curled a strand of hair behind her ear, poising her hand there as her thoughts drifted into the run-away train speeding through her mind. She finally caught Michael's eye. "Why are you asking me this? Do you not want me to be with you for this? Is that it? You don't want me? Is that—"

Michael grasped her shoulders, his hands slinking up her collarbone and throat until he rested on her cheeks. Tears had misted her eyes as she rambled her questions, so twisted with unvoiced worries of unworthiness that his heart was aching that she thought such a thing. He leaned in close to her, keeping himself close for comfort. "No. Hey, that's not it. I just need to know that you're safe and in good hands and away from any thing could hurt you." He pressed his forehead to hers, heaving his breath on her lips. "I don't know what I'd do with myself, Sara, if something happened to you and I couldn't prevent it. That's why I need you to go with Nick, for your safety. Please do this."

Sara brushed her lips over his. That didn't take away the pleading from his eyes. "Michael, I love you. For better or for worse and that means that I'm sticking with you. I'm not going to abandon you. I know you could do this on your own, but what if you're not strong enough this time? I need you and I think you need me to. Will you let me stay?"

"Sara—"

"Michael, I don't want you to have to always look over your back. To have to constantly make sure you don't get caught. The only way that is going to happen is if you defeat this thing here and now. You're opening is right here. This is your chance, honey. But I want to be there when it happens. I've sat at home, worried if you're alive, worried if someone's caught you, worried that you're dead. Don't make me go through that again. Love me and tell me I won't have to. It nearly killed me the first time. I couldn't go through it again. Tell me you understand and that one day we'll be free. Because I'm not going with Nick. I'm staying."

Michael dropped his head. She wasn't going to leave. _Crap_, he cursed. And now she wanted him to reassure her that everything would turn out all peachy-clean? He wasn't going to lie, even to her, even if the truth would hurt her more than his lies. He looked her in the eye. "I can't say that. And I won't."

He slipped out of the stall without letting her speak. She was left alone in the blue world. The tears strung her eyes, hot on her cheeks as they crashed down. The gravity of everything had just hit her, hit her hard. Michael was distancing himself. Had she made a mistake? She squeezed her eyes shut, her lips pressed together. She slapped her hand over her mouth to muffle a sob.

XXXX

TBC...


	5. Authors Note

**Authors Note: **Hey, everyone. Um, well, there isn't a better way to put this other than I'm considering discontinuing this story. I just have too many projects that beg to be completed and my attention has been deterred from this piece. I really hope you're not disappointed with me and do not feel upset with this. Well…I guess you can be a little.

I have certain chapters already written that can easily be stand-alone's so I may just post those chapters as one-shots. But I haven't confirmed anything, I haven't made a final decision. If you still have faith, tell me and I'll consider rethinking, but it stays in its condition as of right now. Look so companion one-shots for this story.

I'm sorry.


	6. Solution, Not the Problem

**Authors Note: **Okay, so when I posted that note containing that I may no longer continue this…I don't know, the feedback made me re-evaluate the context. Truthfully, I just didn't know where to go with it. I have such high hopes for this story; I was really looking forward to it because I got to explore the conspiracy. So, the guilt riding my shoulders, I have re-watched the season (DVD, worth the buy) and re-read the story and, cutting to the point, I'm giving it another shot. I don't like to give up and for this I won't.

XXXX

"Flight six-four-three, you are clear for landing."

The small radio shifted in the pilot's hand as the jet jostled in the black sky, the static as the line went dead frying from the speakers. The pilot mumbled under his breath when the plane jumped in mid-air, catching an unstable draft, then managed to grab the steer in his sweaty palms. He leaned the plane abruptly to the left, the easiness of the maneuver forgotten from his training; they circled Goose Park Airstrip for the second time.

It didn't matter how many times he flew; he still hated the landing the most.

The screeching of the aircraft as the flaps on the wings steadily adjusted to the soaring wind and the turbulence collaborated together made the passengers equally nauseous. Seatbelts fastened tightly across their laps, the extra fabric strung over the edge, they arched their backs into the seats and clasped their eyes closed, clenching the armrests. Grunted curses through gritted teeth were seethed multiple times from the men, the rough ride not sitting well with their bodies. Veronica latched a hand over her stomach as she felt it flip, a liquid crashing against the sides in a jarring sound. She groaned.

Sara pushed the seat back in front of the other woman, closing in on her space, further limiting her breathing room. Except all Sara cared about was distancing herself from the rumble. The wheels unleashed underneath her, the mechanical action deafening in her ears. She was usually all right, but turbulence had a certain sickening effect on her. She muttered something to her companion, but Sucre didn't respond. He hadn't heard; he was attempting to regulate his breathing.

"Have we landed yet?" she bellowed to the man flying the plane, but the question went unanswered.

They plunged into a rapid descent, the sound of speed reverberating against their ears, clipping into the darkness towards small balls of aligned light that glowed ominously. That was their runway and it had never looked bleaker. The highlighted outline of cars waited in the distance. As their speed slowed in motion, twisting her intestines tighter, she grasped Sucre's arm. The reflex surprised her, nonetheless that she reached for the fugitive. She glanced around and noticed that many of the passengers were unaffected by the plane's submerge.

Lincoln was whispering to Veronica, trying in a failing attempt to calm her jumpy nerves. She shooed him off in a belief that she could handle herself. His son sat on the opposite side; headphones plugged in his ears, the white chord extending out of his iPod drowning out the racket of the bird's engine. John Abruzzi slouched in his chair closest to the cockpit, eagerly watching the scene from the windshield of the plane. His fingers wrung together anxiously, his leg bouncing.

The small wheels below the belly of the steel bird lightly touched the black asphalt, a brief touch but then it rested all its weight. Sara lurched forward unwillingly in her seat, the belt locked in her lap keeping her from flying off. Her arms instinctively braced her crash, catching the back of the seat in front of her. She rocked back, the increasing velocity shoving her back with a thump. It still marveled her how fast a plane felt like it had to go before it stopped. As she became accustomed to the speed, she glanced to her right.

Her eyes snagged on Michael across from her; he was watching her, his lips set in a determined line, his face etched with concern. Since she had denounced his move to place her in protective custody, they hadn't talked to one another. She wouldn't put herself near him. She'd told him she was going to leave him to do this alone, but his proposal had infuriated her. She couldn't be close to him without being surrounded by his words to abandon ship. Maybe she was over-reacting and, yes, he did have a point. What she had put herself in, being affiliated with these people, it was a dangerous gig.

She could easily lose her life, could lose everything that she had worked so hard after cutting her addiction to achieve, yet when Michael walked into her bedroom that night, all her ambitions and rules had drifted away. She'd come along, attached herself to this team, for Michael, for Lincoln, and for the candor case that a man had escaped death row for a crime he didn't commit. His innocence was clearer to her with every new day. She'd stayed for Michael, knowing this wouldn't be easy alone—yet, now when he didn't want her to be with him, why should she stay? Without Michael, what motivation did she have to stay?

_I believe in being part of the solution, not the problem._

The plane's surge ceased, reducing into a sputtered crawl. They rolled several more inches then purred to a halt. The cabin was still, silence ringing between each body. They'd landed; they were safe from the sky. Sara glanced above her and noted how the panels trembled as the engine cooled, vibrating rhythmically. Out of the corner of her eye, LJ tentatively unplugged his ears, the headphones coiling between his fingers. Veronica giggled, a smile appearing on her cheeks as a suppressed laugh rumbled from her throat. It was infectious. Sara looked over at Sucre and laughed. The newlywed man held down his own convulsion.

The noise of the engine that blended with them suddenly died. They were left with quiet. Abruzzi stood and entered the cockpit, slipping the pilot money, the two men talking in one another's ear. The clandestine conversation ended. Abruzzi, shrugging on his coat as he surveyed the gathering passengers, unlocked the door, brushing the retractable stairs. Michael pushed through the crowd up to the mobster. Abruzzi eased the door down, holding the rope for assistance; the door converted into stairs. A black van and a red car peaked out of the darkness, the moonlight partially hidden under the building clouds shining on the morbid gloss sheet, blending with the colors of the evil.

The man leaned against the van shoved the flaps of his trench coat aside as his hands dug in his pant pockets then pulled out a white package barely the size of his palm. He pulled two cigarettes out, cradling one behind his ear and the other between his fingers as he searched for the lighter. Orange flames flickered out of the portable gas tank, rising to sizzle the paper between his lips. Gray smoke filtered out of his mouth. Nick Savrinn, shifting his feet uncomfortably, coughed, inhaling the smoke into his lungs. He studied each face that exited the plane accordingly, counting each of the seven passengers.

One by one the group filed out of the plane, holding the rope for support on their jelly legs, and meshed in a tight circle. Police sirens were oblivious this night; Michael sighed in relief. Maybe they would begin this without public attention. He locked his fingers together behind his head, pressing force into his palms, and watched Abruzzi talk to the man, the smoke of the cigarette evaporating around his head. Michael's eyes switched to the side; Nick was talking to Veronica, undoubtedly setting up some time when they could commune. LJ was already waiting in the van, bobbing his head to the music filling his veins.

Sara hugged her arms close to her body, rubbing the leather sleeves enclosing her arms, projecting warmth, her eyes scouring the airstrip. It was quiet, the late night hour shying away in fliers except for them, the denseness of the black coating any identity. The atmosphere that dangled the unknown in front of her nose made her shudder, a thread of cold fear sewing through her body. She forcefully pushed herself away and huddled next to Veronica, adjusting herself shoulder-to-shoulder with the woman she trusted like a sister. Veronica glanced at her and offered her a smile, swaying her body to playfully nudge Sara.

The two women were the counter-parts to two important men; the brothers that were fighting the vendetta the strongest and the brothers that needed the most comfort in the days when they put up a fraudulent masquerade.

"Do you have anything new?" Lincoln inquired, snaking his arm around Veronica's waist.

Nick shook his head. "No. They're being vigilant, quite closely. They slipped up before, but I can't see them doing it again." The words hissed from his mouth in a bellicose insult, compliantly speaking of the government tracking them.

"What about the source you were going to meet? The man that said he had information, the one who knew the entire conspiracy?" Veronica interrogated, her eyes quivering desperately.

_You named me. You named me. _"Dead."

Veronica's head dropped, gasp heaving from her parted lips. "Damn." Lincoln deposited a kiss on her head reassuringly.

"Vice-President Reynolds is beginning her campaign for the Presidency. She made a statement last night and her list will be coming out in a few hours." Nick explained, changing the topic.

"What does that matter?" Sara piped in, narrowing her eyes in confusion. What did the political race matter? Could Caroline Reynolds, the sister of the "deceased" Terrance Steadman, be to blame for all of this?

"Aside from being the main pawn in this figure? Many don't like her because she doesn't believe in change—she won't do anything for our country—and it's already been quite a surprise that she's even considering. The media has predictions on who candidates choose for certain slots, for VP, for Treasurer, etc. But no one knows with her. She's a wild card at this moment"

"Do you have predictions?"

Nick hesitated. "No. She could choose anyone to run with."

The information rung through the four adults, processing in their minds. Who would she choose? They'd know by morning, apparently. Nick's gaze caught sight of Abruzzi talking in a hush to the surveillance, now on his second cigarette.

"So, what are we doing now?" he asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Abruzzi's driving." Lincoln jumped in, reciting the plan flawlessly. "You'll follow. We'll go from there."

Nick nodded, not interested in furthering the questioning, of learning more information than he wanted to handle. He'd learn it all soon enough. "You sure you'll all fit in there? All seven of you?"

"We'll manage." The four faces turned at the voice. Michael, hands balled in his jacket, stood off to the side. He'd listened to the conversation without detection. "We're not leaving each other's sight." Nick didn't reply. He didn't want a confrontation. Michael spun on his heel and trooped towards Abruzzi. "John, we have to go."

"Right, right." Abruzzi agreed, his Italian accent slurring out through a smile. "Come on."

His bellow grabbed everyone. Every set of eyes snagged on him. LJ rustled in the van, carefully climbing over the second row of seats into the back row, forfeiting more space for the other passengers. Abruzzi jumped into the driver's seat, pulling down the visor, the keys tumbling out, while Michael slid back the door. Sucre took the passenger's seat. Lincoln and Veronica joined LJ in the back, molding into the quintessential dysfunctional family with more than enough issues. Sara settled herself before Michael slid in beside her; he slithered the door closed, locking them inside.

The van came to life, growling reluctantly as it was pushed to journey on. They barreled around, circling Nick who swiftly tailed them, and exited the airstrip out of a back gate. It was left open, a quick escape for the convicts racing the country.

Sara stared out of the window; the other presence's suffocating her in, confining her in a position where she was immobile. A sliver of the coming dawn braided on the horizon, barely visible yet there. By the time they would get to the safe house, the sun would just be rising. Her thoughts traveled back to what Nick had said, how Reynolds was a wild card in the race and how whoever was watching them was inspecting their own steps. Her mind kept going back to it, a secret that was becoming more obvious to everyone else clinging to her soul.

Her father was a politician, the governor of Illinois, throwing his life and family away for the expectations laid on him. He'd abandoned his daughter, who craved his dominant approval and needed him so much that the disappointment he filled her with succumbed her to an addiction to morphine. He ignored his wife, leaving her in a therapy-needed state where her alcoholism was so severe that her life was feared for. Sara knew politicians, had grown up with them controlling her childhood, had run her early life on press statements and conferences and intended parties, and she knew that a politician would do nearly anything to get what they wanted.

But would they kill? Would they conspire?

XXXX

The television hummed in the background, a line of static rolling across the screen just as a clip of an apartment blaze transferred on to the page, the headline at the bottom reading of a gas leak in a Utah apartment complex. The reporter, a woman whose voice silently complained sophistication better needed for something else, smoothed her hands over her jacket, primping at the cuff subconsciously, a fabricated beam targeted through her words. Only the early birds would ever hear her. Her eyes projected this revelation.

Her voice was drowned out among the ample bodies lingering in the living room, reduced to the coveted radio broadcast. She excused herself for the local weather, unseeingly grateful for the end of her performance. A man, pushing his spectacles further up his nose, appeared on the screen in front of a wide shot of downtown Chicago, the tip of his head dragging to the corner from the curve of the set. His hands gestured at the building cells in the north; the screen blackened suddenly then revived in the center of a battle. A small red and white ball was hurled at the camera. A brilliant yellow orb erupted in the viewer's faces…a Pokémon emerged.

Lincoln groaned, tossing the black remote aside, ignoring the thunk as plastic clashed with leather, circling his neck to relieve the sore crinks in his muscles. He tipped his head back, his hair cushioning the force, and gritted his teeth irritably, this jaw lolling, the clasp stretching down his exposed neck. He bobbed his leg, fidgeting; he felt imprisoned in boredom.

"Stop, Linc, you're making me antsy."

Lincoln shifted his head, his right side falling into the pillow, vanishing in the deflatable fabric. His eyelids narrowed, his countenance hardened in annoyance at his younger brother. Though they differed in last names and childhood memories, their recollections of a father that never was, their blood within them shared similar personality traits. They could've been considered twins by the way they felt the others peeves and emotions, years of separation finally mended together.

The younger of the pair uncrossed and crossed his legs, lazily placing one foot on the other knee, devising a lop-sided square of energy deprivation. The morning's newspaper, only recently delivered at their front step, was held in his hands, crinkled and crumbled from being a hostage to the sheeted wrapping, snapped open to the continuation of a story on the front page. 'Two Men Arrested in Phoenix Killing Spree.' The third serial killer was still unidentified and missing.

Michael folded the newspaper in his lap, each individual crease attacked with the precision of any origami crane, and barred his fingers over his armrests. His fingertips grazed the sheer metal details on the edge, the intended sewn binding tickling his skin. Lincoln's squeamish manner landed on him; he shifted in his chair.

The Pokémon episode ended, a name calling fainter into the abyss as the rerun concluded in a cliffhanger. The notorious theme song that played like a broken record player in the heads of thousands of people at the pinnacle of its success floated through the air. LJ, nestled against the couch pillows, his back shielded towards the world, began to hum the song in unison with each string and word. The slumbering teenager moaned in his dreams and turned over, a swipe of brown hair falling across his eyes, his throat still vibrating with the song.

Lincoln and Michael snickered. To see the chagrined expression of the teenager when he was told of his antic in the morning was going to be an amusing scene; neither men was going to purposely miss it. Lincoln ruffled the boy's hair.

"It's very funny, boys. Now will you please go back to the news?" Veronica asked from the kitchen.

Lincoln glanced at his girlfriend; the fiery lawyer flashed him a smile, her hands picking two slices of bread from the popped toaster. The heat lifted up like evaporated rain, the sweltering crusts burning her fingers, hastening her movements. The crumbs rained on the plate, held over the microcosm like desolate clouds banishing the sun for eternity. The scorching bread imprinted black soot on Veronica's fingers; she dropped the toast instantly. It clattered on the clay, splintering into a pouring storm, leaping up briefly like an electrocuted patient soliciting revival before settling lifelessly.

"And that is your morning's traffic report at seven o-three. Back to you, Charley."

The segment finished, the loud flier's shouting over the chopping of the helicopter's propellers transitioning into the quiet studio. Charley bid thanks to the woman and shuffled the stack of papers in front of him, glancing down occasionally. He read through the pile, discarding them one by one to the side, carving his thumb over the paper's edge.

Veronica smiled, the stories of overnight maiming her ears, and shimmied past Sara. Sara pressed herself against the stove, cautious to not snag her clothing too close to the flames, clawing her fingernails into the tile counter. The wooden spatula dangled in the frying pan, steam rising from the sizzling with the shredded egg and ham omelet, providing music for the morning. Sara replaced the spatula in her hand and partitioned the omelet into five parts, breaking away from one another like the rogue coyotes they had become.

Shackled in a mafia safe house, they defiantly isolated themselves in an a cappella commune, absconding around the world to play hide and seek with the Company. They built a wall around them, creating a circle around the vulnerable, the padlock rusting with age, forgotten, now as delicate as tissue. The only reliable way to strength their wall was to play each other's warrior, fighting the battles after choosing which to leave to the challenged.

Sara watched the generations of Burrows out of the corner of her eye and she knew, eventually, they'd be okay. They'd survive this.

"Nancy Lou has the details. Nancy?"

The drainage of the toilet from the bathroom down the hall—next door to Michael and Sara's room—inundated Nancy's article, the older foreign woman hunching her shoulders to block the frigid wind. Sucre walked in, pausing at the end of the counter. He leaned his palms on the border, surveying the women preparing breakfast. He smiled ghostly, realizing that in a short time he'd be doing the same thing for his son. Sara glanced at him, offering him an amiable smile.

"You hungry? I'm starving." Sara wondered aloud, sliding down the aisle to retrieve glasses from the cabinet.

"Lincoln, can you turn that up some. It's about Reynolds." Veronica said, a stack of clattering plates in her hands. She set them beside the toast and laid a hand on her stomach, breathing deeply. She closed her eyes; how long would she have this stomach flu?

"Starved." Sucre answered. The volume rose.

"Perhaps the biggest surprise is the inclusion of Illinois governor, Frank Tancredi." Nancy Lou announced, the microphone's web bouncing against her chin as she faltered.

Veronica and Sara abruptly stopped, their hands immobile. Veronica looked to Sara; the woman was a statue, lips parted in shocked confusion. Her mind couldn't comprehend the information that had just been fed to her. When had this happened? When had he been offered the seat of Vice-President in the Reynolds campaign? The state of paralysis was overcome with numbness as she stalked into the living room, baring herself to the treason of her kin.

"His consideration is attributed to his reputation of being tough on crime and some point to her recent refusal to lend clemency to Lincoln Burrows, the murderer of the Vice-President's brother, now a wanted man after his escape from Fox River State Penitentiary four months ago. We wish Governor Tancredi luck as we watch this race closely. Back to studio."

Charley proclaimed the time then the program broke into a cycle of commercials. Silence blanketed Sara, but all she could hear was her heart beat pounding her ears. Her lungs constricted, plugging her organ so her breath lodged. Her hands balled into a fist, squeezing menacingly. Would the masochism overpower the pain inflicted by her father?

"Sara?" Michael's shakily tone panged her, growing as he stood. He cautiously stepped towards her. "Sara…"

Tears overwhelmed her eyes. The bridge of her nose stung, the battle cry for a new war. Had her father personally done this? Had he avoided telling her he was taking the position alongside the woman they were fighting to debunk as payback? Was his revenge for her decision to stand by convicts and not her blood? She grazed her nostrils with a swipe of her fingers then turned from her new family, snatching her coat as she flung out the door.

"Sara!" Michael's yells trailed her outside, his footsteps cantering to catch her. LJ bolted awake, looking around wildly during the climax.

Michael chased Sara, jumping down the steps in hope of stopping her from any careless action she was going to commit. Her name shrieked from his lips, his long legs extending to reach her.

"Sara!" Michael broke into a jog and grasped her shoulders. She hugged her arms closer to her body, the force of Michael's thrust spinning her to face him. "Where are you going?"

"I have to talk to him." Sara informed, biting out the words as she wrenched free. She couldn't let the anger pinned on her father be released on him. He cared about her and that devotion would be her stability in her unfleeting emotions, only if she allowed it.

"Sara, you have no idea what they'll do to you if they discover you're back. They could kill you."

"He's my father, Michael. How could he not tell me? How could he just let me find out from the TV? I'm more than that—I deserve more than that."

The desperation caught Michael off guard. As he listened, he knew she was right. Though it should have been expected, she had a right to have been told in his own words. He had a theory that any father that he knew ultimately let people down, disregarding their feelings for their own selfishness, except he wished Sara were different. Yet even she couldn't escape the curse. She didn't deserve the pitiful treatment she was handed. No person deserved that.

Michael sighed, hanging his head, digging his hands into his pant pockets. Cold metal beat on his nail, scraping the bone. Wrapping his fingers around the ring, he drew out a chain of keys. The van's key swayed among the others. Michael took Sara's hand in his own, turning her wrist upward, and deposited the keys in her palm.

Sara looked at him. "You'll need these." Sara nodded, biting her lip. Michael leaned forward and lad a kiss on her head. "Don't stay away too long."

Sara sniffed, nodding again. She loved him for his constant support, the trait that made her feel like the safest place was in his arms. She backed away; he let her walk away. As she backed the van out of the driveway, he couldn't help but feel that he just let her walk into hell.

XXXX


End file.
